Unleashing your inner OCD

My wife happened to be out of town the evening in question. I had spent the day running errands, including picking up some scrap metal from a friend of mine. He was happy to give me the metal, not only because it cleared out his backyard, but also because he knew I had a scrap pile at home, so I’d make a few bucks when I turned it all in.

After loading up, we were chatting, and he mentioned that he had some smoked trout, and would I like one? Sure! I love trout and even though I’m a lousy fisherman, that fact alone usually doesn’t deter me from trying. (It’s called “fishing”, not “catching”, right?) Something that might make a difference in this story is knowing that my friend is also a cannabis grower. Now, I don’t know if he “smoked” the trout in the same building that he uses to dry his “product” but looking back I think it’s a fair assumption that he did. So, I head home with my partially full truck bed and dinner’s main course in hand.

That night I heated up the trout in the microwave, cracked open a beer, and enjoyed both. It was a small fish, so I decided to warm up a can of clam chowder to round out my “seafood surprise” dinner. And oh, what a surprise it would later be.

After dinner, something outside the back window had caught my eye. I went out into the back yard and saw several illuminated paper bags floating up into the night sky. I called my wife (as I do whenever we are apart) to discuss the day and bid her a good night. I tried to explain the bags and she did not understand what I was talking about. It would seem that the actual words did not reside in my mouth, so I bid her a good night and wrapped up the call.

I wasn’t feeling ‘bad’, but I knew something was ‘off’. I tried to write down what had happened, and the words were just a scribbled mess on a Post-It note. And I actually *TRIED* to write, concentrating on what I was writing, making sure to be clear, making sure to describe exactly what had happened. But again ‘words’ just were not working.

I decided to turn in early, figuring that sleeping it off would be the best course of action. I nodded off in bed, but about an hour later my body awoke me with what can only be described as a full-on panic alert – my stomach had cramped, and I knew I had to get to the toilet *NOW*, because this was going to get really ugly, really quick. I jumped from the bed and tried to make the 4 steps to the master bathroom, but on step 3 it started. Even though I had covered my mouth with one hand, the pink puke had started to make a hasty exit, and nothing was going to hold it back. By the 2nd surge, I was over the toilet, so I was more than happy to let it catch the mess that was exiting my body. After flushing it away, I was too weak to get up, so I just laid down on the bathroom floor for some time. (I would later estimate it to be 45 minutes, but given my mental state at the time, it might have been only a few minutes.) When I did get up, I cleaned the bathroom floor as well as some pink ewww spots that were in the bedroom. Then I somehow got back to the bed and finished out the evening there.

Lucky for me, it had been a Saturday, so I had all of Sunday to recover. Monday morning, I went into work and told my buddy of the adventure I had. I showed him the Post-It note and we both agreed that something had gone awry in my system, most likely food poisoning. He said he had not experienced anything like that, so maybe it was the clam chowder?

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About hemibill

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